


t'apprendrai à te méfier de ce que tu crois mériter

by spock



Category: Papillon (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Domestic, Grooming, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mail Order Husband, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-03 21:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20459834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: There are worse things to feel in the company of another beyond the amusement the two of them seem to find in one another, of that Henri knows well.





	t'apprendrai à te méfier de ce que tu crois mériter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GloriousGoblinQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriousGoblinQueen/gifts).

Seemed as if the sun was of as little a mind to rise as he was. Henri blinks at the darkness of the room, internal clock struggling to place just how long it is that he's slept. The already shortening days are made worse by a bad spell of weather; he might have been down for all of an hour for how rested he feels, yet with his luck he might've slept the whole damn day away without notice, darkness falling anew across his floorboards.

Last night he hadn't been up for doing much more than fixing himself a glass of water and chewing on tack as he made the journey between the door of his kitchen to the bedroom. His stomach gnaws at him now, the thought of rising all the more intolerable in the face of hunger that drains him just as much as his lack of sleep does.

It wouldn't be much more of this that he can take before he falls ill — or worse.

After a turn he manages to get himself up, stepping into his trousers and getting the suspenders still attached to them up around his shoulders. The heat of his breath fogs past his nose with each exhalation as he roots through his dresser, pulling on two sweaters to try to fight off the cold still lingering within the unending night.

Any hope he might've been holding towards the morning improving are gone by the time he closes the front door behind him. The clouds are so thick overhead that the moon does little more than send down thin, weak tendrils that only just manage to filter through, affording just enough light so that Henri manages to catch vague glimpses of the rocks and brush that trip him up every few steps.

Searching out a hand this close to winter is always a tricky thing. A man worth his salt would've been hired on prior to the autumn's harvest and would stay with that employer well into the spring. Those set free by smaller operations would've traveled south for warmer work weeks ago, or returned home to their families until it was of a season again.

So much of the business relied on word of mouth and recommendation, but it has passed the point where Henri can be selective. Even the unintentional damage caused by an untrained hand cutting his teeth would pale in the face of what Henri's stake would come to if he carried on alone as he was.

There was nothing left to be done for it. He'd place an ad in the paper and see what fate sends his way.

* * *

A man arrives at his door two days after the ad has gone up. A bag sits at his feet.

Henri greets him knowing full well that he appears to be mildly feral, too tired and busy to bother with shaving. He’s come to enjoy the protection his beard provides against the biting winds anyhow. The man looks to be his opposite, slight and dark and well-groomed, with glasses hooked behind his ears.

"Well," the man says. "Good morning. Are you the M. Papillon who put out an inquiry for an assistant at your farm?"

Henri squints at him, a hand scratching at his chest. The knocking had woken him and he hadn't thought to put on a shirt, his exhausted mind sure that this had been some strange dream world where visitors came calling without notice and the cold could not reach him. He yawns in reply, tapping at the butterfly at the hollow of his throat.

The man nods. "I hadn't expected such a delicate name for one so,” he seems to consider his words for a moment, “rough."

Henri smiles before he realizes what it is that his face is doing. "What makes you think I'm rough?"

Eyes take Henri in from top to tail, but the man is clever enough not to answer. It's that as much as anything else that has Henri declaring, "You'll do." He steps aside and nods his head towards the inside of the house, eager to return to the modest warmth. "What's your name then?"

"Louis Dega," he says, hurrying up the stairs and through into the house. They both seem to be glad to have the door closed behind them.

Henri watches with an amused tilt to his lips as Dega inspects his home, turning on all the lights as he passes through the living room and into the kitchen. "And where are you from, Louis Dega?"

"Marseille," Dega says. "As well as other places."

He whistles. "You ventured a ways away from Marseille to end up this far north." Dega does not respond to that, touching the back of his hand to Henri's kettle and frowning at how cold the metal must be. Henri cannot recall the last time he used it. Dega must feel at home, for he takes it upon himself to carry the kettle to the sink. "Did you work on a farm in the south?" Henri asks, trying again.

Dega sets the kettle back on the stove, lighting the eye before he casts his own across the kitchen in inspection. "I have not worked on a farm before," he says, direct and unflinching. "I doubt I'll do much farm work here."

"Yeah?" Henri's legs ache in the mornings. They ache all the time, but the mornings are especially bad, the few hours rest he manages just enough to have the muscles lock up and siege. He sits down at his modest table and rests his head at his palm, staring at Dega. "How do you figure that?"

"Why didn't you look for someone before me?"

Henri can feel the makings of a headache settling into the base of his skull. "It's a bit of a last-minute thing."

Dega's spine straightens, the man no longer hunching over himself. He smiles, the first time since Henri's met him, and he's shocked at how it transforms his face.

"What does that mean?" Dega asks, humor thick on his tongue.

"It means that the man I had before you went along and fucked up his leg, so now I'm in the unfortunate position of hiring during the off-season, which is the only reason I'm giving your sorry ass a shot," Henri says it all with a smile on his face, genuine for all that it has always seemed condescending to those on the receiving end of it. Dega returns the expression easily.

There are worse things to feel in the company of another beyond the amusement the two of them seem to find in one another, of that Henri knows well. He wonders if Dega has had a similar life to Henri’s own, where his face gets him into as nearly as much trouble as words themselves do. "How is it that we've come me being the one interviewed?"

Dega seems to consider it. "Perhaps I'm a better employer than you?" The kettle starts to howl and Dega turns to attend to it, missing the look that Henri levels at him.

"I want to make ensure that you know what it is you’re doing," Dega continues. He starts opening those of Henri's cabinets nearest to the stove. "And that this operation of yours won’t go belly-up any time soon. I do intend to be paid for my labor."

Henri finds himself missing the steady weight of Dega's eyes on him. It is a strange emotion, one he isn’t accustomed towards, and he blames the change in himself on the solitude he’s faced since Julot left. "And here I thought I'd just heard you say weren't planning to work at all?"

Dega turns back to him with a frown, all of the cupboards and cabinets torn open and thoroughly inspected. "Where do you keep your coffee?" he asks. "Or tea; I'm fine with either."

Henri scratches at his beard. "I'm out."

"Of both?"

"Of both." The heft of Dega's gaze is not so pleasant when laden with as much judgment that exists in it now. "With only one man to do the work, I haven't had the time."

Dega nods as if he'd been expecting such an excuse. "It is that reason exactly for which I say I don't believe the farm itself will see much of me."

The kettle whistles fully and Dega moves it onto an unlit burner. He comes closer to the table, bending to attend to his bag at the floor. "You're lucky I still have some of my own," he says. "I'll expect to be repaid."

Good humor settles over Henri again. "Repaid so that you might use my home to provide yourself with a warm drink, am I understanding this correctly?"

Dega does not appear to be one used to being questioned. He levels Henri with another of his unimpressed looks and pulls out a journal and pen alongside the tin holding his coffee. "Can you write?" he asks, handing the book over to Henri.

The headache returns. "I should just fire you now and save myself the trouble," Henri says, though there is little heat in his voice. Dega doesn't bother turning back to answer him, collecting two cups and spooning out the contents of his tin into them.

Henri fips open the notebook, turning past pages of scribbles and drawings until he finds one that is blank. "What is it that I'm documenting?"

"Make a list of all the supplies you've depleted." Dega returns to the table and sits down at Henri's elbow, placing the cups between them. "Any meals that you favor. And draw me a map of how to get back to town from here; I fell lost twice on my way."

Henri picks up his cup and takes a long pull. He pauses at the taste of it, pulling back to stare at its contents. He ran out of sugar long before tea leaves and coffee grounds, and Dega hadn't raided Henri's icebox for the milk stored there. The coffee is flavorful and smooth despite being doctored with neither. Dega might be on to something.

"You shall handle the farm and I'll deal with the rest," Dega insists. "It's clear that it isn't the work that’s too much or you would've hired a true hand much sooner." He taps a finger impatiently at the still-blank page. "I do know what I'm about, you know. Let's both see that to which we're suited and neither of our lots in life will seem so awful."

Henri drains the rest of the cup, giving himself time to cool his temper before he next speaks. "Well," he says, "at least you’re honest."

* * *

Life with Dega is strange.

Henri wakes up not long after he'd laid his head down a few hours prior. His room is warm, the door opened by another sometime during the night to let in the heat drifting from the living room, fire well-stocked and maintained so that it's able to spread to the rooms even at the back of the house. He dresses with his stomach still full from dinner the night before, and it does wonders in making the morning not seem as grim as it usually does.

In the kitchen he finds Dega. The two of them exchange quiet greetings as Henri sits down at the table. It's never more than a moment or two before a plate is sat down in front of him, laden with eggs from the chickens and potatoes dug up from the modest garden Henri keeps just outside the door leading off the kitchen. The coffee Dega makes for him is lightened with milk and blooms sweet across his tongue.

"Should I shave you this morning, do you think?"

Dega does this often, making suggestions that are only such in name. Rhetorical demands, each one turning the house and Henri himself into something much more palatable to the man leveling them. Remarks on Henri’s grooming are new, however. The usual hill on which Dega typically chooses to die involves an attempt at getting Henri to take his midday break and return to the house for lunch. Henri does not like anything that might prolong his day, and so he refuses. Eventually one of them will break, though Henri worries that it will be he rather than Dega that does.

"I'll need to leave soon," he says, and doesn't consider the tilt of his mouth to be a pout. He'd rather thought the beard suited him.

Dega frowns. "When have I ever been less than swift in my work?" He grabs hold of Henri's face with his hands, rubbing against the grain of Henri's beard with his fingers. "Do you want to keep it? I supposed I could trim it for you instead."

His tongue suddenly feels heavy in his mouth at Dega's touch. He clears his throat, working his jaw beneath Dega's hands. "Do whatever you think best," he says. "You're the one that has to look at me each day."

The hand at his cheek slaps him, gentle and teasing. "Papi," Dega says, voice alight. "I hadn't realized you were so vain." It sounds as if the concept delights him, which is entirely disconcerting to Henri.

He makes to swipe at Dega, but the man has learned to read him far too well. He stands from the table and goes to the sink before Henri can think to move, grabbing a bowl and razor that Henri hadn't even noticed had been laid there in waiting. Dega always does _this_ as well, expertly manipulating Henri into what he wants without much effort at all. The man reads him too easily and anticipates his needs much in the same manner.

"Have I been neglecting you?" Dega asks. "Are you lacking compliments and affection?"

Henri moves his empty plate aside so that Dega can place the bowl there. Dega sits at Henri's feet on the floor instead of retaking his chair, whipping a slice of soap into foam in the smaller bowl resting in his lap.

"I suppose it might be nice," Henri says.

Dega raises to his knees and starts rubbing the soap into Henri's face, softening the hair. "Is that so?"

"I am so kind to you, after all."

Dega's laughter is welcome, even so close to his face and brought at his expense.

"And when do you dole out this kindness, Papi? I must have missed it. Help me to ensure I don't overlook such a rare gift again."

"I praise your cooking!" Henri does his best not to move his face too much, as Dega has picked up the razor. "And find you amusing, the times when such a trait isn't overshadowed by your being annoying.'

"How kind indeed." Dega's hands make steady scrapes with the blade against his cheek, working quickly, as promised. "And combined with a jab as well, you truly are a man generous with his words."

Henri waits until Dega has moved the blade back into his lap, cleaning it with a cloth, to speak again. "And you provide me with something so lovely to look at when I come in from the cold," he says, voice going soft. "And you are always very warm when you sit next to me at this table, or on the sofa, so that I can’t help but wonder if one of your talents could also lie in sharing a bed with me instead of us being separated each night."

Dega does not meet his eyes as he attends to the other side of Henri's face. "I hadn't realized I occupied your mind so much."

"Louis," he licks his lips, "I think of little else but you."

The blush that colors Dega's face is extremely gratifying. Henri observes it, fond, as Dega finishes and wipes the last of the foam from his face.

"You're finished," Dega says, collecting the bowls and extracting himself to the other side of the kitchen, pouring the soiled water down the drain. "Get to work."

Henri stands and stretches, rubbing at his face with the backs of his knuckles. "A bath tonight, I think."

Dega shoots him a look so suspicious that Henri can do little but laugh. "My face being so well-groomed has the rest of me itching." He walks to the door leading out to the back of the house and steps into his shoes, bending himself in half to do up the laces. "Just make sure the water's drawn and hot when I return, that's all I ask, Louis. You shouldn’t be worrying after your virtue. You're the one who fished for compliments to begin with."

* * *

Dega isn't there to greet him when he drags himself through the door that evening. He toes his shoes off tiredly, taking in the stew left to simmer on the stove.

"Did you want to eat first, or bathe?" Dega calls from across the house.

Henri's ears are still ringing with the bleating of his flock and he can't bring himself to shout back. "I'm too damn tired to eat." The house is quite beyond them two; his voice carries to Dega easily enough even at his regular volume.

"Come back then," Dega says in reply.

He sheds his clothes as he makes his way towards the washroom, taking care to carry them with him rather than leaving them strewn down the hallway, unwilling to hear Dega's nagging on the matter. Some days it’s fun to see the man so agitated, but Henri's constitution can't handle the strife tonight.

Dega's eyes dart to him when he steps through the door, the upper portion of Henri’s long johns pushed down to hips. He hadn't wanted to offend Dega's modesty. Dega, to Henri's amusement, is in a similar state of undress, the sleeves of his johns pushed up to his elbows, the legs of them rolled up to his knees.

"Will you be joining me then?" he asks, tone heavy with interest.

Whatever shyness had that been drawn out of Dega that morning seems to have hidden itself again. "I thought I'd be so kind as to wash your back," he says. “Of course, I can always leave.”

Henri makes a face at him and then shoves the last of his underclothes the rest of the way down his hips and thighs, kicking them off either of his legs and leaving himself fully naked. He notices how Dega suddenly finds himself busy with something at the side of the tub's basin, though his head is angled just so, a perfect degree to watch from the corner of his eye as Henri walks close and steps into the bath.

The water is hot enough to make him hiss, an agony he welcomes after spending so long out in the chill.

"Fuck me," Henri says, sitting down and letting his limbs float within the water, all of him starting to sting and tingle. "You're gonna make a good husband someday, Louis."

Dega's hands settle just atop the water at his shoulders. "I rather think I'm a husband now, by most standards," he says.

Henri hums his agreement. Most, sure.

He submerges himself fully when Dega puts light pressure on the top of his head, enjoying the feel of being so encapsulated by water before he forces himself up again to breathe.

It's a sweet torture to have Dega wash his hair for him, strong fingers working into his scalp. "What did you do today?" He asks it in the hopes that it'll distract his mind, his body, from having Dega near him in such an intimate setting, but it only makes things worse, Dega's soft voice behind him as his hands move from his head and down to massage Henri's shoulders.

His hands settle in his lap as Dega's voice turns from words to a sort of incomprehensible noise that washes over him just as much as the water itself. Henri takes himself into his hand and squeezes, willing his erection to leave him and yet relishing everything about this moment.

Dega's hand slides down over his shoulder and onto his chest, long fingers stretching out across his skin. "What are you doing, Papi?" His lips ghost across Henri's ear as he speaks.

"You've got eyes, haven't you?" Henri's own have long since closed. "I'm only flesh and blood."

The hand at Henri's chest slides lower, until the tips of Dega's fingers touch the part of his abdomen that rests beneath the water, stopping there and venturing no further south.

Henri licks his lips. "Why don't you join me, Louis?"

Dega's fingernails dig lightly into his skin. "The water is filthy."

"We can run another." Henri turns his head to the side, nose brushing against Dega's cheek.

Dega's breath is loud in his ear. It hitches, just for a moment, before their lips meet. Henri wastes no time in deepening it, his free hand twisting up behind himself to reach for Dega, fingers gripping tight at Dega's back.

"Oh," Dega says, pulling away. He pats Henri's chest a few times and then takes his hand from the water, extracting himself away.

Henri opens his eyes and sees Dega walk back into his view, collecting a towel and bringing it back over to Henri in the tub. "It's late and you've had a long day. Get out now before you fall asleep and drown yourself."

Henri stands, fingers still wrapped around himself but not bothering to hide his body's reaction to Dega's care and attention. Dega's eyes drop to his lap and he freezes for a moment before bringing his gaze back to Henri's, handing over the towel in an awkward jerk of a movement.

Dega turns and leaves the room, not saying anything in his wake. Henri sighs and steps out from the tub, quickly drying himself off so that he doesn't leave too big a puddle for Dega to clean up later.

He walks into his room with the towel at his waist and is surprised to see Dega in his bed.

"That's my side of the mattress," he says, rather dumbly.

"Funny," Dega pulls his glasses from behind his ears and lays them to rest on the nightstand. His chest is bare, and Henri has a great desire to know if the rest of him is so exposed to the world beneath Henri’s blankets. "It's mine as well. Am I in your way? Should I leave?"

Henri bites at his lip and counts backward in his head. "I suppose the other side will be more firm, seeing as it has less use."

He drops the towel at the foot of the bed, smirking at Dega's frown. He's softened during the lonely walk down his chilled hallway, but his body has been known to recover from worse things in far less hospitable conditions.

The bed is as warm as he imagined with Dega curled up inside of it. He settles himself against his pillow with a pleased sigh, his eyes drifting closed in contentment.

Dega slides close to him, bridging the space between them and plastering himself to Henri's side. His bare leg brushes Henri's, and Henri can feel Dega's interest in the firmness of Dega’s cock where it presses at his hip.

"Has your mind finally gone quiet?" Dega asks.

Henri hums in question. He places his hand on Dega's behind, giving it a firm squeeze. His skin is so smooth, the hair soft against his fingers.

Dega's laugh is quiet but feels loud where their bodies are pressed together, the reverberations of it echoing out from his chest where it's pressed to Henri's arm. "Now that your fantasies have been made real," he explains.

Henri opens one eye to squint at him. "I wouldn't call them fantasies," he argues. His point is undermined slightly by his eagerness to take Dega into his hand, pulling at him lightly a few times.

"Stop," Dega gasps, his hand coming down to lay over Henri's, stilling the motion. "Tomorrow you've got a buyer coming for the calf, haven't you?"

Dega's mind for business never fails to be the eternal pebble in Henri's shoe. "Yes," he says, for all that he knows the question wasn’t inviting an answer.

"It's late," Dega continues. "You've got to be up in six hours."

Henri sighs. "I know," he says, already trying to will his body to calm itself again. There will be no relief for him tonight.

Dega's clever fingers draw circles against his chest. He's quiet enough that Henri's exhaustion resettles easy over his body, dragging him down just to the cusp of sleep.

Of course it's then that Dega strikes. "Perhaps we can fit it a rendezvous should you were to come inside for lunch," he says, soft and right at Henri's ear. "For once."

"You snake." Henri is impressed despite himself, even half-unconscious as he is. "I'll make you lunch," he says nonsensically.

Dega tips his head up and presses one, two kisses to Henri's slack mouth before settling himself back down onto his own pillow. "Sure Papi," he says. "Whatever you say."


End file.
